<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>flight by vagarius</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030191">flight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vagarius/pseuds/vagarius'>vagarius</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A3! (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, Family, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:27:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vagarius/pseuds/vagarius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I wanted you to leave.</em>
</p><p><em>I wanted you to chase me.</em> </p><p>scenes from a lonely household</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ikaruga Madoka &amp; Ikaruga Misumi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>flight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>not me racing to finish this after realizing that it will probably be demolished by canon</p><p>... it kind of already has but *shrug*</p><p>there shouldn't be any explicit spoilers other than sky pirates!!! pls enjoy :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>When that time comes...</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Madoka opens his eyes, automatically reaching for his phone on the nightstand. <em>Thump. </em>His hand hits the wall instead. <em>It's been years, </em>he thinks, rolling onto his stomach. The sheets tangle around his legs, pulling tighter as he twists himself forward. <em>Why do I still forget which side the nightstand is on?</em></p><p>"Maybe this is why Nii-san was a lefty," Madoka mumbles to himself, knowing full well that it makes no sense. "So he didn't have to struggle to reach the nightstand."</p><p>Madoka finally grabs his phone, then mindlessly scrolls back and forth on the screen, thoughts of his brother briefly clouding his mind like smoke. Involuntarily, Madoka's gaze falls to the triangles carved into the bottom of the headboard. His brother must have hidden them with his pillow. Madoka wonders what he used to carve them.</p><p>Downstairs, the front door cracks open, and the sounds of his father leaving for the morning float up to Madoka's bedroom. <em>Sundays are for groceries, </em>he thinks. <em>Complete your writing exercises before I return. Then we will eat as a family.</em></p><p>Madoka places down his phone, then quickly untangles himself from the sheets.</p><p>There has never been a third spot at the table, but if there had been, Madoka wonders how he would feel, staring at the empty place setting every meal. Or at the empty space, where it should have been.</p><p>He ponders the thought as he spreads his papers out on his desk. It's sunny outside today, shining off the dust motes above his desk. The white of his papers glares back at him. <em>It doesn't matter, </em>he thinks. <em>It never existed.</em></p><p>
  <em>It's always just been me, facing him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks after his brother leaves, his father moves Madoka into Misumi's old room.</p><p>Madoka doesn't understand the reasoning, if there is any at all, but he is no place to question it. For the next few days, he moves all his stuff two doors over. He tries not think about where Misumi's old stuff might have went – his father threw out anything Misumi hadn't taken with him, surely – and simply does his best not to drop his own belongings while he walks back and forth through the wooden hallway.</p><p>The last box he brings is overflowing with documents, and as he places it down on the floor, the top few sheets fly off and sway like leaves under the bed. Madoka sighs, then reluctantly lowers himself to the floor. As he reaches for the missing papers, his hand knocks into another object, slightly raised off the ground but just as light.</p><p>Madoka grabs it, then pulls his hand out from under the bed. He stares. <em>A paper airplane?</em></p><p>He runs his finger over the bumpy edge of one of the wings – the page must have been pulled from a notebook. Absentmindedly, Madoka unfolds it. The page, unsurprisingly, is blank. Madoka flips the page over once, twice, three times, as if waiting for a message to appear.</p><p>Nothing does, of course. There are only pre-inked lines and creases.</p><p>Madoka re-folds the airplane with delicate fingers, then leans back down to grab his missing papers. He tucks the airplane into his nightstand drawer.</p><p>He stands, documents in hand. He has a desk to fill.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On a warm summer evening, a second paper airplane flies through his bedroom window.</p><p><em>You never change, </em>he thinks, holding the airplane in his hands. For a moment, he lets himself smile.</p><p>"Madoka?" his father calls out.</p><p>Madoka quickly hides the airplane behind his back. "I'm here, Tou-san."</p><p>His father slides open the door. Madoka stares at his shoes. "You heard, right?"</p><p>Madoka nods. "Yes, Tou-san."</p><p>As soon as his father's footsteps fade away, Madoka pulls the paper airplane out from behind his back. He places it next to the other one in his nightstand drawer.</p><p>His grip tightens on the drawer handle.</p><p>
  <em>I never change, either.</em>
</p><p>Madoka shuts the drawer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Madoka writes his first full script in middle school.</p><p>He writes about angels, flying through the sky. A lost soul wanders underneath them on the dirty earth. One of the angels swoops down to bring the soul to the sky with him, but the soul refuses to fly. Instead, they walk along the ground and over the ocean, and the soul tells the angel of his earthly tales. It's only when the soul finishes speaking that he tells the angel to bring him to the sky, but the angel has already lost his wings.</p><p>It's a sad script, perhaps, but his father praises him with a strange sort of hunger in his eyes.</p><p>Then he takes the script away without a word, and returns with a paper-filled box that he drops at Madoka's feet.</p><p>"Read these," his father says.</p><p>With no reason to refuse, Madoka kneels, and picks up the first booklet. He begins to read.</p><p>He reads about worlds from long ago, weathered and repurposed like reclaimed wood. He lives through sword fights and sandstorms, in log cabins and pirates' quarters. And like the angel from his fictional sky, he becomes spellbound by the words on the pages, and attached to the lives that aren't his. Unlike the angel, though, he knows what these tales really are.</p><p>His father walks away again. Madoka's vision blurs.</p><p>
  <em>Grandfather's handwriting…</em>
</p><p>He puts down the script to wipe his eyes.</p><p>Like the angel, and the soul, Madoka is still bound to this dirty earth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One of the first things Madoka learns is to look away.</p><p>"Madoka," his father instructs. "Face forward when you eat."</p><p>Madoka turns back toward the table. He pokes at his rice. "… Will Nii-san be eating with us?"</p><p>His father doesn't answer. Madoka scoops up another bite and chews. Another. And another.</p><p>He swallows. "May I be excused?"</p><p>His father nods, so Madoka stands up to leave. Right outside the door is Misumi, leaning against the hallway wall. His arms are wrapped tightly around his knees, his ruined nails drumming against them.</p><p><em>Look away, </em>Madoka thinks. <em>Look away.</em></p><p>Madoka walks toward the stairs, eyes trained on his shuffling feet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One week after Madoka's eighteenth birthday, his brother shows up at the doorstep.</p><p>The air that greets Madoka is clean and crisp. Behind his brother is a picture-perfect sky: an endless, textbook-blue, dotted sparingly by wispy white clouds. The sun casts the main entrance in a faint golden glow, and the stone paving glitters under its rays.</p><p>Madoka remains frozen in the doorway.</p><p>"Nii-san," he greets.</p><p>Misumi wrings his hands together. "Madoka."</p><p>Madoka's gaze strays to the flowerpot at the left of the entrance. "You shouldn't be here."</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Madoka sees his brother press his lips together. "I know," he eventually answers, then rocks onto his toes. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, no sound coming out in between. He rocks again.</p><p>Madoka takes the time to breathe. He thinks about paper airplanes, tucked away in his nightstand. About triangles, carved into the bottom of a headboard. About the boy, standing in front of him, and all things Madoka didn't give him.</p><p>Madoka swallows. "Please leave."</p><p>Misumi's twined hands rise to his chest, like a prayer. "Madoka – "</p><p>"Father will be home soon," Madoka interrupts. "I still have exercises to complete." His hand clenches around the doorframe. "Please leave."</p><p>Misumi's face falls, followed by his hands, dropping slowly to rest in front of his stomach. His eyes close with the force of his smile. "Okay," he agrees. "Bye, Madoka."</p><p>And then he leaves. For a few moments, Madoka simply stands there, his hand tightening around the doorframe until his knuckles turn white.</p><p>He lets go. His hand drops limply to his side.</p><p>He closes the door.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Two birds are born in a cage. One is left to the wind and the rain. The other is brought inside to a grand hall.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The first bird struggles, its wings damp and cold. But soon, the first bird learns to work with the wind, and flies to great heights. The first bird soars, and learns to sing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The second bird is prized, its wings shiny and groomed. The second bird learns to fly the length of the grand hall, back and forth for all the visitors. But when the second bird isn't flying, it rests in its cage once more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps it was waiting for the first bird to –</em>
</p><p>Madoka's pen veers off the page, leaving a squiggly line of ink in its wake. Crickets chirp from outside the window. <em>The deadline's tomorrow, </em>he thinks. <em>You shouldn't be writing silly things.</em></p><p>With a sigh, Madoka places the ruined paper in his scrap drawer, then pulls out a new sheet in front of him. His hand clenches around his pen. <em>The deadline's tomorrow, </em>he repeats to himself. <em>You've done this dozens of times before.</em></p><p>"All I'll do it dozens more," Madoka mumbles. "I just have to keep going."</p><p>
  <em>It's the least I can do.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Madoka's birthdays have always been quiet affairs.</p><p>This year, too, is more of the same. He receives an envelope from his father and nothing more. The money inside is immediately put away, although Madoka isn't quite sure what he's saving for.</p><p>Later that night, he opens his window and looks to the sky. The clouds block a great portion of the view, but Vega still shines clearly, as it always does. He makes his birthday wish on the stars.</p><p><em>I want to be nothing, </em>he thinks. <em>Just for one day.</em></p><p>Vega's intensity never wavers, growing neither brighter nor dimmer as Madoka gazes upon it.</p><p>Madoka blinks, and pretends the wink of the light is the stars acknowledging him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On a summer day when Madoka is small, he trips over his feet in the hallway.</p><p>Yellow sunshine streams onto the wooden floorboards, blanketing Madoka as he clutches his now-scraped knee. Footsteps thump behind him, growing quicker as they approach.</p><p>"Madoka!" Misumi calls down the hallway. The footsteps slow to a stop. "Madoka?"</p><p>Misumi squats down in front of him. "Madoka," Misumi repeats once more. "Are you okay?"</p><p>Madoka keeps his mouth shut, even as tears well up in his eyes.</p><p>"Let's go get Jii-chan," Misumi suggests, then reaches out his hand to help him up.</p><p>Madoka flinches away. "Don't touch me."</p><p>Misumi's face crumbles. Madoka's heart constricts in his chest.</p><p>Madoka struggles his way upward, pushing himself to a stand, the scrape on his knee burning with the movement. Misumi holds out his hands, as if to steady him. Madoka ignores them. "Don't follow me," he says instead, then begins to stumble down the hallway.</p><p>Misumi doesn't move a muscle.</p><p>Madoka's lip quivers. <em>This is what I'm supposed to do.</em></p><p>Another step. Another.</p><p>
  <em>Why does it hurt so bad?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The doorbell chimes again on a Sunday.</p><p>"Nii-san," Madoka says.</p><p>Misumi shuffles at the bottom of the steps. "Madoka," he starts. "Summer Troupe told me that… you might not have meant what I thought you meant. Last time." Misumi picks at his sleeve. "That you might have only told me to leave because you had to." Misumi looks up. "So I came back to ask what you <em>really </em>wanted. From me."</p><p>Madoka exhales. Behind Misumi, clouds dominate the sky. Even so, the view feels too bright for Madoka – the muted light burns his tired eyes, like white paper against a dark desk. Like sunshine in a wooden hallway. Like Vega, shining lonely in the sky.</p><p>"I wanted – "</p><p>
  <em>I wanted you to leave.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wanted you to chase me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wanted you to –</em>
</p><p>" – nothing," Madoka answers. "I wanted nothing. I <em>want </em>nothing." Madoka's vision blurs. The tops of his cheeks feel raw. He swallows past the lump forming in his throat. "Do you know what I wish for on my birthday?" he asks. Misumi opens his mouth as if to respond, but Madoka doesn't let him. "I wish for one day, just <em>one, </em>where I can be nothing. Not our grandfather's successor, not your little brother, just – nothing."</p><p>Madoka furiously swipes at his eyes. His throat is burning. He feels like a towel being wrung dry, tightly coiled and frayed at the ends.</p><p>His brother moves closer, hands raised with a hesitance unbecoming for him. "Madoka," he says, hands stilling in front of him. Madoka sniffles. "You've always been just Madoka, right?" His brother tilts his head, his lips carefully curling upward. "Our family has always loved Madoka."</p><p>Madoka wants to scream again. <em>I didn't want it, </em>he thinks.<em> I didn't want a love I had to act for. But I took it anyway, because he ignored you so easily. We both ignored you so easily. Could that have been me, had I stepped out of line?</em></p><p>
  <em>I was so selfish.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was so, so scared.</em>
</p><p>"Go away," Madoka finally mumbles. When his brother makes no move to leave, his voice rises to a painful screech. "Go <em>away!"</em></p><p>And after another moment's pause, his brother leaves, just like last time. Just like he always does. Like Madoka always tells him to.</p><p>There are many words Madoka could use right now. Beautiful words. Words so haunting that they'll enter dreams, or leave the lips of movie stars. Beautiful, precise, and deadly. Another masterpiece.</p><p>But Madoka is alone right now, and his heart feels like it's been hollowed out with a melon baller. His throat still burns. His eyes feel like someone rubbed them raw with a scrub brush. He might be shaking.</p><p>Madoka doesn't want words right now. They are both his comfort and his cage, and he wants neither.</p><p>"Damn it," he grumbles, then swipes under his eyes again. "Fuck, I can't fucking do this anymore."</p><p>The doorstep is empty once more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On a day when his father is out, Madoka's grandfather brings Madoka and his brother to the back porch. Madoka lies on his stomach where the roof still extends over him, notebook under his hands. His hair sticks to his neck and forehead in the humid air. Somewhere in front of him, Misumi runs through the damp grass, uncaring about the mud ruining his socks and shoes.</p><p>His grandfather plops a hand on top of his head. "You're still in elementary school, you know. Shouldn't you be playing outside? Playing pretend?"</p><p>Madoka pouts, shaking off his grandfather's hand. "I'm fine."</p><p>His grandfather huffs. "Don’t you want to go play with your brother?"</p><p>Madoka pauses. "I'm fine," he repeats.</p><p>His grandfather puts his hand back on Madoka's head. He sighs. "A ten-year old shouldn't hate his brother, you know."</p><p>Madoka scribbles in the corner of his notebook. "I never said I hated him." At the top of the page, he draws a square.</p><p>His grandfather huffs again, then ruffles his hair. "You can hate him for now," he says. "But there will come a day when you don't have to. When that time comes – "</p><p>A clap of thunder. Madoka blinks himself out of his daze. Wind whistles outside his bedroom window. "Focus," he murmurs to himself.</p><p>He writes to the rhythm of the rain.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Madoka is particularly lost, he'll pull out his grandfather's old scripts. Sitting behind the worn-down box, Madoka opens one of the booklets at random.</p><p><em>We'll be enemies, then, </em>he reads, his grandfather's handwriting staring back at him. <em>As I'm sure we'll be for many years. Maybe even thousands of years. Who knows how long we'll be left here, after all? Our paths will never cross again. Our eyes will never meet. I'll grant you an angry, punishing loneliness. Unless, of course –</em></p><p>" – you find it fit to forgive me for my grievances."</p><p>A droplet of water falls onto Madoka's wrist. Then another. And another.</p><p>Madoka quickly closes the script, placing it back inside the box. Three droplets turn to four which turn to many, and then Madoka is crying in earnest, laughter bubbling up between each sob. "Isn't that too heavy a thing to tell a ten-year old?" he asks himself.</p><p>
  <em>Everything was too heavy back then, though.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It still is.</em>
</p><p>"Madoka?"</p><p>His father walks into the room, eyes on his phone. "Is the draft…" His father trails off. "Madoka?"</p><p>For the first time in a long time, Madoka looks his father in the eyes.</p><p>"No," he says, through the snot and the tears. "It’s not done yet." He stands, then slides the box back into its place on the shelf. "I don't know if it ever will be."</p><p>Madoka brushes past his father, his eyes straight ahead.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>That night, Madoka sits out on the back porch, underneath where the roof extends. The sounds from the light drizzle combine with the chirping of the crickets, creating one off-beat, muddled hum. His cheeks feel sticky from tears.</p><p>"I don't need it," Madoka tells the stars. "I don't."</p><p>The stars, as always, offer no words in return. Through the clouds and the rain, even Vega barely twinkles, nearly lost to the crying sky.</p><p>"I don't deserve it," Madoka continues.</p><p>
  <em>I don't even forgive myself.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In Madoka's memories, his brother is lit by moonlight. He sits cross-legged on the top of his bed, staring at the bottom of his headboard. Faint scratching noises rise to Madoka's ears through the cracked-open door, like a pen on paper, or nails on wood.</p><p><em>I don't hate you, </em>he wants to say to him. <em>Please don't leave.</em></p><p>Madoka traces his finger along the triangles carved into the brown wood of the bedframe. As starlight spills from under paper blinds, he thinks about how powerless he was. How powerless he is.</p><p>"I lied," Madoka whispers. "There <em>is </em>one thing I want from you."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Madoka throws open the door.</p><p>His brother blinks up at him, but otherwise doesn't react. His eyes are trained on the stone pavement, glittering under the late morning sun. Cold wind blows his bangs in every direction, and the ends of his scarf flutter behind him like wings.</p><p>Madoka wants so badly to hide from him. To close the door, and let his brother do the chasing, until Madoka feels broken enough to face him.</p><p>Madoka shakes his head. "Nii-san," he says, then lifts his eyes to the section of sky to his left. "I'm sorry."</p><p>Misumi's own gaze rises, eyes wide and unblinking. His lips curl upward. "For what, Madoka?" His scarf continues to flutter. "I don't think there's anything you need to be sorry for."</p><p>Madoka's hands curl into fists. "I do," Madoka argues. "I let you – I let you think I hated you." Madoka steps through the doorway and into the chilly air. "So I'm <em>sorry</em>." He walks to the edge of the entrance steps. His voice lowers. "You asked me what I wanted, right?"</p><p>Misumi nods.</p><p>His gaze slides right. "I want this," he states. "Please accept my apology."</p><p>Somewhere behind the Ikaruga home, there's a bird, flying low in the sky. Its feathers are damp and cold. But one day, it will rise high above the trees, and the rushing wind will dry its feathers. Like the sky itself is lifting its wings.</p><p>Misumi's eyes crinkle. "I forgive you, Madoka. I always have."</p><p>This, Madoka suspects, is what it must feel like.</p><p>"Nii-san must want something, too," Madoka insists.</p><p>From behind his back, Misumi pulls out a paper airplane, just like the two hidden in Madoka's nightstand drawer.</p><p>Misumi tilts his head.</p><p>Madoka, with a weightlessness unbecoming for him, races down the steps.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You can hate him for now. But there will come a day when you don't have to. When that time comes…</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>… he'll surely forgive you.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>twitter: @jea9yj</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>